


Nighttime roses

by claysnail



Category: Kara no Kyoukai | The Garden of Sinners
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claysnail/pseuds/claysnail
Summary: Sometimes they dream of the other in the face of death.





	

\-----

 

1.

“You don’t look so energetic today,” commented Touko mid-cigarette. Mikiya had taken on the role of errand-boy again, leaving Shiki alone with their employer.  
“Huh,” said Shiki. She was standing at her usual spot at the side of the office, arms crossed, turned away. Her head still felt full of a numb kind of sleep-mist and the cloying stink of cigarette smoke certainly didn’t help.

Being alone with Touko was odd; dangerous and annoying and protective, all at once.

None of the television screens were on yet. The murders - _the_ murders - had recently started up again, and Shiki could guess that none of them really wanted to hear anything about that first thing in the morning.

No, she wasn’t very energetic today. Not at all. Was she ever?

“Couldn’t sleep or something?” asked Touko, casually. _fwip-fwip_ went the sound of pages being turned. “You know by now that the sofas are free for napping.”

Absently, Shiki wondered when Mikiya would return. Then her attention was caught by the movement of Touko removing her glasses and peering at her over the messy stacks of papers and books on her desk.

“Say, what do you dream of at night, Shiki?”

“...Nothing, usually.”

Touko smiled a little darkly.

“Nightmares, perhaps?”

Shiki glared at her and shook her head. (She couldn’t remember, not past the blue-white ghosts, or the midnight void, or the numbness. Not past how meaningless those flowers at her bedside had been. Why did that come to mind, anyway?)

“What a disappointment - it’s an intriguing realm of study.” Touko returned to her papers with a dramatic sigh. “Well, I suppose our boy would be relieved to hear that.”

Shiki stood very still. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, just something that came to mind. He was worried, you know. Back when you were in the hospital.” She chuckled, dark red eyes finally catching Shiki’s sullen brown ones. “Feels like a while ago now. I knew he was worried about a lot of things, but that was one particular concern he voiced out loud: whether you were having nightmares, alone at night in that place. Of all things. Isn’t that silly?”

Unexpectedly, her tone of voice had softened - briefly compassionate, maddeningly knowing. _Maybe he was the one having nightmares._

The suggestion made Shiki tear her gaze away and look straight ahead. Unable to stand the sudden delicate silence in the air, she picked up a stray remote to turn on the television screens.

 

\-----

 

2.

Her conversation with Touko clung strangely to the back of her skull. One night alone, while drifting off to sleep, she found herself wondering what Mikiya would do if he was by her side when she had a nightmare (and whatever having a nightmare entailed). She imagined him holding her hand or something and immediately embarrassed herself, pushing the thought away - and yet the voice in her head said, _he would tell me not to worry; he would say it was nothing to be ashamed of; he would be damn annoying and he would..._

As if a mere bad dream would shake her so. Hadn’t her entire life been like a weary, drawn out nightmare already? Irritated, disgusted, she rolled over, and at last it seemed the clinging thoughts were rubbed away. She slept heavy and dreamless with weighted bones.

It would be after Lio’s end that nightmares became something of note.

 

\-----

 

3.

Mikiya had brought her flowers, again. She stared at the bundle of hushed pink and blue and burnished green, clasped in his gentle hands (how gentle, she knew so well).

“What’s with those?” she asked, realizing as she spoke that the question was an echo from an evening of warmth just like this. But this was different from that time. 

That was before. This was three months after.

“I just felt like bringing some,” he said. He glanced at her shyly with his one eye. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you of anything unhappy.”

“No... That’s not it.” She paused. “They’re nice.”

He smiled and brought out a plump black vase in the shape of a cat from under the sink - a recent gift from Azaka - and unwrapped the flowers carefully. That night the small bouquet of roses and hydrangeas spread itself over the counter silently. Shiki gazed at it whenever she knew he wasn’t looking.

 _Ah, it’s no good,_ she thought sadly, _it’s reminding me of things._ But she did her best to quell the torturous beast from rousing, because he still hadn’t ever been with her when she’d woken shaking and sweating, and she intended to keep it so.

It didn’t happen that often and didn’t bother her much, anyway.

They were tired and did not speak much more that evening. Mikiya sat on her bed with his back against the wall for a while, reading a little dog-eared book, while she lay on her stomach, purposefully flipping through a magazine to distract herself.

Near 10 o’clock she yawned and crawled off her bed to make her way to the bathroom with a mumble that she was going to take a shower. Afterwards, while he took his turn, she turned off the lights early and lay face up on her side of the bed beside the wall. A strange kind of anxiety bubbled within her.

She heard him reenter the room.

“Are you asleep already?” 

“No.”

Shiki listened as he limped over, removed his socks, and slid over onto the bed-space that had been reserved for him. He carefully spread out the blanket, covering both her and himself. Shiki held her breath and lay motionless when he came so close, leaning over her with a corner of the blanket - and the fact that he so carefully avoided physical contact irritated her, because... Maybe because it was such a Mikiya-like thing to do.

He took off his glasses and placed them on the floor. “Well, goodnight then.”

She took a peek at him - a little different without his glasses - and then breathed in a deep breath, pulling the edge of the blanket up to her nose. “Good night.”

“Shiki, if you need anything, just wake me up, okay?” 

The sincerity in his voice bothered her and made her strangely sad, again. She wondered why he had said that, tonight of all nights.

“Okay,” she mumbled. His quiet breathing lulled her to sleep. 

It was inevitable, really. She woke shaking and sweating, tense and aching, head full of the rush of murder and dark places - something snarling at her neck, a figure collapsed on the ground - _Mikiya, unmoving_ \- and then a firm handle in her palm and blood in her mouth. Ah, she must have bit her tongue. Heart pounding, breathing hard, she sat up in the darkness. Her hands felt cold and numb and sticky as she clasped her knees to her chest.

Slowly, she registered Mikiya’s voice beside her.

“Shiki. Shiki, what’s wrong?”

This wasn’t supposed to happen; not when he was here, not when she was supposed to be fine and happy now, after everything. “I’m fine. Bad dream. That’s all.” She did not look at him. “Go back to sleep, Mikiya.” _You need your rest,_ she thought. _Don’t look at me. Not like this. I’ll be fine in a minute._ Suddenly she thought again of him bloodied on the ground and felt nausea rise in her throat. _I’ve caused you enough -_

He had placed his left hand ever so gently on her trembling shoulder.

“Are you sure?” he murmured.

_Don’t -_

“Is there anything I can do?”

She swallowed hard, bowed her head, felt his touch fade away as he withdrew his hand and began to shift himself back. She gripped her knees tightly, and thought, all at once: _yes, there is something you can do_.

“Mikiya.”

Carefully, she let go of her knees and placed her hands by her sides.

Almost immediately, Mikiya was there again, so very close to her. “What is it?”

She raised a hand slowly and reached back towards him, blindly groping for contact; her hand was intercepted by his, fingers closing readily over her clammy skin.

“I’m here,” he said. He gave a reassuring squeeze. 

And at last the words forced themselves out of her, surprisingly clear.

“Mikiya, please hold me.”

His hand slid up her wrist, her forearm. She turned around stiffly and he enveloped her. 

“I’m here,” he repeated, words soft and tangled up in her forehead, her hair, her shoulder. “You’re all right. Don’t worry.” He embraced her tightly and rubbed her back; tight enough so that they could feel each other’s heartbeats. She breathed hard and said nothing, soaking up his warmth and smell and strength.

“What was the dream?” he asked her. How quickly his heart was beating, though he seemed so calm.

“Bad things,” she managed. “Things I shouldn’t remember, but shouldn’t forget either.”

He made a sound and held her a little tighter.

“I hesitated in front of the flower shop,” he said, “but I - I just wanted -”

“Nothing to do with the damn flowers,” she muttered, and pressed her face into his chest. “It’s not.” 

Maybe she cried, but she wasn’t sure and didn’t really care anymore. She looked past his shoulders and saw the flowers glowing hushed pink and blue over the counter - still, protective, like a memory that also knew what would come to pass. Like every flower he had ever brought for her, and would bring, lived on in those blossoms and watched over her as they had always done.

He held her hand until she fell asleep. When she awoke late the next morning, he had already left for work, but she found a note by the bouquet:

_Shiki, I hope you slept well. Don’t worry about last night. See you soon._

There was a tiny, self-conscious heart drawn in the corner of the note, disguised as an afterthought - as if he had hesitated with pen in hand when the desire to express it had really been there from the beginning. Burning embarrassment jumbled with relief washed over her.

“You could say it, if you want to that badly, ” she muttered to herself. “I wouldn’t mind.”

She read the note twice and stowed it away in a safe place.

When the flowers wilted, she felt no sorrow; their essence lingered forever in things like his sincerity and her resignation; his hand laid warm against hers whenever she slept uneasy; the way he held himself back. The way she held herself back. (But it was all right like that.)

 

\-----

 

4.

One night, they lay awake talking in the half-light. Shiki finally asked him a question that had sat mulled in the back of her mind and heart for many months.

“Did you have nightmares? While I was... in the hospital.”

“Probably,” said Mikiya lightly, then paused. “That’s such a long time ago. Why?”

“...Touko said something annoying a while back. Was just remembering that.”

“Hmm.” He rolled onto his back; she could hear the amusement in his voice. “I can imagine the gist of it. Dramatically philosophical as usual?”

She huffed. “Sort of trying to be serious, here.”

“You’re always serious, Shiki,” he teased gently.

She sensed that he didn’t want to talk about the past - not right now - and let it go, though something gnawed at her. She stared up at the ceiling in silence as she tried to figure it out. Was it concern for him? Curiosity? The desire - need? - to know his suffering, so that she could... what? Comfort him? Feel better about her own? Was this guilt, now, because she had reminded him of unhappy things?...

“Shiki. Can I kiss you?”

Mikiya’s shadow and warmth hovered over her, his features barely visible and his voice now subdued and solemn. He always asked beforehand, but not often; they rarely engaged in the gesture (indeed, only a handful of times so far). Not because they didn’t like it, but mostly because they didn’t feel a need for it, or didn’t think about it - but now that he had said it, oh, she wanted it. And she didn’t even feel embarrassed about it.

“Yes,” she said, and reached for him. He kissed her just once, slowly, a sigh against her lips, his hand caressing her hair and her jaw. Something so easy in the darkness. She closed her eyes so that there was only gentle touch, gentle sound, gentle darkness - layer under layer, like petal under petal. There was his melancholy under his carefulness, a simple, momentary desire for physical affection born from it (that he perhaps did not know they shared), and her urge to give, to be _kind_ to him, welling up within her - and then he retreated with a murmured “goodnight”, and all became quiet. Minutes passed.

“I know you brought flowers every week while I was there, Mikiya,” she said, suddenly, softly, but he had already fallen asleep.

_I never thanked you, did I? How? How do I thank you? How do I give back, when you expect nothing in return?_

 

\-----

 

5.

She came to understand how. There were flowers of her own of a different shape - yes, a little pricklier and messier - that she could still lay by his bedside of sorrows.

“Shiki!”

She flew awake, trying to make him out in the darkness, and was stunned to find him sobbing beside her.

“Mikiya?”

“Shiki,” he cried, flailing weakly. “Shiki, you’re all right?”

_Ah..._

“I’m fine. Shush.”

He kept saying her name, over and over. She helped him sit up, held him and stroked his back, mostly because she wasn’t sure what else to do, and partly because that was what he had done for her. 

“What did you dream of?” she asked awkwardly, after a while.

“You,” he choked, “You were going to kill yourself. I _saw_ it. Again.”

_Of all things..._

“Silly,” she sighed, cupping a damp cheek. His eye shone wet and sorrowful as he searched her face. She hugged him again, silently, trying not to think of dark bamboo forests and rain and the colour of SHIKI’s final choosing. She wondered how often that haunted him, in the past and now - wondered how often he dreamed of her death - and held him tighter. He remained stiff in her arms as she spoke words of comfort awkwardly into his ears; words that felt so foreign in her mouth because she had never said them to anyone else before.

“I cannot die by my own hand, Mikiya,” she reminded him, gently. _Only by yours, when the time comes_ , she thought. He exhaled and nodded into her shoulder, grasping the fabric of her nightshirt whorled over her arms.

A little while afterwards, once his breathing had slowed, he startled her by finding her right hand and clasping it with cold fingers.

“See, you are kind,” he rasped with a tired smile. “I always knew.”

She bit her lip and gave his hand a squeeze. “Oh, quit it.”

Then, as if he had suddenly become aware of what was going on, he was apologizing, pushing himself away and rubbing at his face, stumbling off to the bathroom before Shiki could say anything. She sat in a daze, trying to think of what one does at a time like this. 

When he returned, slowly, almost shamefully, she tugged him towards her and embraced him once more. He froze.

“Shiki?…”

“You don’t want this?”

He paused and relaxed. “No, I do. Thank you.” Then he swallowed and said, “This is terrible and embarrassing. Um. You don’t have to force yourself, to, um, comfort me.”

She scowled. “I’ll do and say what I want.”

That made him chuckle; she knew it would. Then he leaned back and gave her a look that held something deeply intimate; imploring and cautious and soft.

“What?” She realized her heart was pounding.

“In that case… Do you want to help me forget what I dreamed?” If the room had been any brighter, she might have seen a blush rising to his cheeks. Still, even in the half-light, she was close enough to see the way his gaze had dropped, his eye a little weary from his tears but beautiful, the line of his worried eyebrow, his black hair dipping over his forehead and the place where his other eye had been. So strong, yet so vulnerable - wasn’t she the same?

“Least I can do,” she said, daring herself. There was the embarrassment she knew would come - but then he closed his eye and smiled so peacefully, nestling forward into the crook of her neck, and this, this was all right. She touched his scar under his hair and thought about kissing him.

“I take it back,” he murmured, “I don’t want to forget it - I just want to keep it safe. Shiki…”

She spread apart her fingers and let her palms slide over his back and his shoulders, up to his neck and down to his hips, feeling warmth blossom everywhere as he pressed closer. She kept him safe. She pressed her lips to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, listening to him sigh and breathe. She kept his heart safe.

 

\-----

 

6. 

Shiki knew right away that it was a dream, but she admired its realism nonetheless. The cafe she was sitting in was quiet and empty save for a distant mumble, or an occasional shadow passing by; such a peculiar familiar place, where it seemed ghosts could visit, or she could meet her past self, or something else entirely. There was a menu on the table in front of her but when she tried to focus on it, she found that it remained a little blurry no matter what.

“Ah, there you are.”

Aozaki Touko slid smoothly into the seat in front of her, no different from when they had last met.

“Is this a nightmare?” asked Shiki. 

Touko raised her eyebrows. “My, how rude,” she said joyfully. “But I would expect nothing else from you, Shiki. It’s good to see you.”

“I guess,” admitted Shiki.

“What have you been up to?”

Shiki frowned at her and said nothing.

Touko picked up the cup of coffee in front of her which had materialized without fuss (as things in dreams tended to do), and took a slow sip.

“I hope you know, you disappeared at such a stupid time,” Shiki said finally. _Without even a goodbye._ The mage smiled a little sadly and removed her glasses.

“I stuck around long enough to confirm you were both alive,” said Touko. “But it was time for me to move on. You understand.”

“So what have _you_ been up to?”

“That’s a secret,” she chuckled.

“Classic.”

“But, tell me, Shiki,” said Touko. “Did you manage to make amends yet?”

“Make amends?”

The mage took another sip.

“What I’m asking is,” she placed her cup down, “have you forgiven yourself?”

Shiki stared into that dark, serious gaze, and thought of a bamboo forest at night; a hospital; the wilted bouquets at her bedside. She thought of a cramped office; of rain; of a bloody knife in her palm and the tears of someone she loved. She thought of snow and a warm embrace. She thought of the future, so bright that it was almost blinding, and as tangible as the hand she had held in her own. In the eyes that watched her across the table, she found the trace of a compassionate light that already knew the answer.

“Maybe. It depends how you look at it, ” she replied, but couldn’t quite stop her smile. The flowers had never been meaningless.

\-----

 

**Author's Note:**

> Time and time again, I return to writing about Kara no Kyoukai. Thank you so much for reading and for leaving any feedback you may have.


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